What the Fire Could Not Burn
Amay had learned three things before she learned her name properly.
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Read the NewsletterAmay had learned three things before she learned her name properly.
At exactly 2:00 p.m., a thought crossed my mind with a certainty that made my heart pause.
I grew up in a Christian home where God wasn't someone we visited on Sundays. He was a part of our daily life.
The first thing Railee learned about her body was that it did not belong to her.
The tip of his finger brushed the icing from the corner of my mouth.
No face to recall. No voice to comfort me. Everything I know about her was stitched together from my father's stories and the memories the villagers shared whenever they saw me.
Like our mother’s tongue / Love has its language / I wish it is universal / But we speak different / love languages.
It’s funny how a song can slip into your ears and, without permission, make you feel closer to someone than ever, even if you haven’t seen them in months.
Faith was not just another word for me growing up, faith is what I do. I dare things beyond my size, pray for people with serious illnesses, telling them it's done even if nothing changes.
Give me the old time religion / The one we have abandoned / We say the times have changed / And we can change faith's way.
On this side of eternity / what do you think happens here? / Have you ever paused to wonder / how a man ought to live / on this side of the divide?
There is a saying so old / it has stopped being a warning / and become simply a truth: / “Like mother, like daughter.”